


The Balance of Probability

by CaffeinatedSquirrel (Couldbeamidget)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Wrangling His Nibs into submission, no really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 13:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13976601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Couldbeamidget/pseuds/CaffeinatedSquirrel
Summary: The power dynamics involved in a powerfully dynamic relationship.AU, in that in this universe Moriarty does not exist. I am trying to keep this particular story lighthearted. Frankly, I find it impossible to stay fluffy when the specter of Reichenbach hovers. I'm a glass-half-empty kind of gal.Sherlock and Co., ACD's books, and the work on BBC does not belong to me. Alas.





	1. Always Your Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lalarandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalarandoms/gifts).



> I know, I know...very short. But I didn't want to have this story erased by AO3 after languishing in my draft folder for ages.

   Sherlock is quintessentially a control freak. Not that John would ever _(n_ _ever)_ embrace the word "freak", in reference  to his flatmate, partner...best friend-cum-lover.

   Pun unconditionally intended.

   Labeling Sherlock as a "Control Junkie" is fundamentally, a very bad idea; inappropriate, as well... _bloody hell._ Be that as it may, Sherlock Holmes is a supremely bossy git, and John is tired of giving in to his whims.

  Sherlock always, and forever gets his way. It's child's play, really, for the manipulative bastard. Deduce, seduce, then reduce John's desires to trivial tripe.

  Take the presence of combustibles in the kitchen, for an example. Fingers in the fridge. Eyeballs in the microwave. Bloody harpoon propped up against the Victorian-styled wallpaper. Mrs. Hudson never did get all the traces of pig blood removed, despite dabbing at it with cold water for over an hour. She took it out of their rent, of course. A silly gesture, really, muses Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson promptly rendered the censure useless, using it to purchase several items from Sainsbury for her boys.

  The landlady for 221B (AKA: Not Your Housekeeper) carts home, among other things, two packets of Jammy Dodgers, a box of chamomile tea, and a generous cut of roast beef for Sunday dinner. Mrs. Hudson places these three items in her tenants' flat. The 2-litre of cheap red wine, however, is strictly for personal consumption; an aperitif to accompany her nightly herbal soother. Being a wily old bird, she tucks it into the airing cupboard for safe-keeping.

   Frankly, John is sick to death of being ignored. Sherlock prances. He dances. He whines, stomping around the kitchen table in finely tailored trousers. It's terribly frustrating for John, especially since all of this posturing allows for a 360-degree view of Sherlock's fine arse. The detective's immature moue stands as a reminder of how much John adores nibbling on that plump lower lip.

   Obviously, Sherlock is demanding about sex.

   " _Noooow...._ John. I want you now," Sherlock growls. "Take a shower with me. I'm going to wash up all of your stinky bits, and then I plan on taking you _hard,"_ his chocolaty baritone drops half an octave, "arse in the air, whilst bent in half over my chair."

   Normally, if Sherlock looks desperate enough, John gives in - whether he's in the mood or not. Sherlock can be very persuasive. The detective set those gorgeous green eyes on his lover and instantly deduced John's desires and dislikes. Sherlock can get John hard, no matter what.

   Easy peasy.

   Sherlock does so love getting what he wants.

   Sherlock will be rather put out when John puts his plan to the test. Tough shit. John is a soldier. John is a  _captain,_ and it's high time that Sherlock was reminded of this fact. From now on, Captain Watson is going to give the orders in bed...and on the rug...in deserted back alleys - if his plan is successful. 

   But, first, he needs to do a bit of shopping. Milk is not on the list.


	2. Sherlock and His No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John introduces Sherlock to a new way of thinking.
> 
> I had promised Lalarandoms some smut in this chapter, but...I lied. Next chapter, I promise.

   Snarled allegations bounce against closed sliding-glass kitchen partitions. John stops reading the paper ("Extensive in-fighting among Parliament delegates has led to a voting deadlock on the Bellweather Bill, and P.M. blah blah blah...yada yada yada...") tilts his head to interpret his flatmate's grievance. Something...disturbed slides...something bacteria something ...yes. Fairly heated accusations regarding the nitwitted contamination of his latest experiment - the one with the one single sample. Molly's been ridiculously stingy with body parts as of late, not a liver, or kidney in weeks.

    _"John!_ What is the meaning of this travesty?" Sherlock bellows, indignantly slamming the pocket door into its slot. He stands, chest heaving and pink-cheeked, in the doorway. John licks his thumb, looks down at his lap, and casually flips to the crossword. Sherlock's eyes narrow into ill-humored slits. "John? I asked you a question. I believe I deserve an explanation," he snorts. "At the very least, I expect an apology."

   "Mmmmm," John croons in amusement. "Sherlock, what's an eight-letter word for 'petulant crybaby'? It's right on the tip of my tongue." His back remains firmly planted to his chair, ignoring the crybaby in question. If John _had_ deigned to turn around, he would have seen Sherlock's patrician nose flaring like a bull's facing a matador. 

   John smartly snaps the newspaper, folding it in half, and then quarters. "Hand me a biro, will you? I've figured it out on my own. Surprising, really, considering that I'm a complete idiot. Yes, now I have it. It starts with a capital "s".

    _"Jaaawwwn!"_  Sherlock howls, stomping heavily to John's chair. The action become somewhat superfluous once his feet march across the thick oriental carpet. If the detective was a character from a children's programme, plumes of smoke would be pouring out both ears. "John. This affectation of yours is unfathomably rude. I never put up with such blatant impertinence, and I certainly won't tolerate it from you!" Sherlock aims, flipping a slightly bent biro in the direction of John's lap. It smacks against the newspaper with a pop.

   "Ta very much, love," John practically sings out.

   "This situation is becoming preposterous!" Sherlock bellows in high strop.

   John's reply comes in the form of a two-toned, noncommittal hum, unconsciously mimicking their doorbell. This is closely followed by the  _*scritch scritch scratch*_ of a much-maligned biro against newsprint. He presses hard into the paper, to no effect. The pen is nearly out of ink.

   "Of all the..." Sherlock's ranting falls off into silence. His behavior shifts from demanding to deductive. The genius tilts his long neck to the left, considering. "Hold the phone," Sherlock huffs. "Why are you acting this way? This isn't normal behavior for you. Your Roman Catholic upbringing prohibits such churlish behavior...being forever condemned to Hell, and such nonsense." 

   "In the mood for Chinese tonight, or curry?" John muses, delighted at the direction this is going. He still hasn't turned to face his lover. "I'm feeling a bit peckish this evening." The little releases a gentle sigh, barely audible above Sherlock's agitated huffs.

   Sherlock's head now cocks to the right, at a precise 35° angle. Stress-induced sweat has dampened his hair, soft curls twisting into dreadlocks. Limp chestnut fringe drapes alluringly over one eye. "Curious. Even if your formative years weren't a strong enough influence on etiquette, three years in the army have certainly defined your sense of social decorum. What," his eyes squint even tighter, "in God's name is going on?"

   "Sherlock," John says calmly. "If you feel we must talk, at least do me the courtesy of not shouting over my shoulder. Come sit down. And, bring me a new biro whilst you're at it. This one's a bit of a dud."

    The detective stares at the back of John's head in astonishment. _Un-be-lievable._ "Fine, I'll concede, if only to figure out your motives." He strides over to the desk in three imperious steps, swiping a small, blunted pencil out from the litter smothering its surface. Sherlock spins, dressing gown swirling around his stork-like legs before settling. "Here, catch, why don't you." He hurls the stub like a javelin thrower during the final heat of an Olympics' qualifier.

   Without bothering to look up, John reaches one hand upwards as delicately as if to cover a yawn. Deft surgeon's fingers nab the pencil a mere second before the tip spears his nose. Still seemingly focused on the crossword, John tosses it over his back as if for luck. "Ta. Now get over here and plant your lovely arse down on the chair. I have a few grievances of my own to discuss."

   "Bloody hell, are you serious?" Sherlock squawks, sounding unhinged. "What in Christ's name are you playing at?"

  John finally deigns to gaze up at his lover, eyes half-lidded and shielded by fringe. The doctor's normally pacific, cobalt blue irises have transmuted into a dark, almost sinister hue; storm clouds stirring up the surf, perhaps. The doctor's pupils are markedly dilated. The smile pulling at thin lips is anything but kind.

   Sherlock stands, transfixed. He goggles in stupefied wonder at this odd tableau unfolding before him. "John?" he murmurs, shaking his head like a dog after its bath - or a man recovering from concussion. Destroyed slides and ruined experiments are no longer of any concern to this conceited, string-bean of a man. Sherlock's jaw belatedly drops to the floor. He feels like a bird held frozen in the cold, lidless glare of an asp.

  John, doctor, ex-military medic, mild-mannered boyfriend and frequent conductor of light, is undergoing dare he say...a permutation. The man's entire demeanor is different. John's short, rounded body is hardening; mutating into a mass of taut muscle and menace. Sherlock has only twice before seen anything remotely like this happen. In both separate instances, his own life was in obvious peril.

   John's metamorphosis points to one simple truth, and one only. Captain John Hamish Watson is preparing for out-and-out war with his lover.

   "Sherlock," John says coolly, "Come sit down." His eyes flicker to Sherlock's chair, then back up at His (bloody gorgeous) Nibs. "Come on, Sherlock, come over here...I won't bite. I promise."

   The detective moves before it's obvious that he's balking. John's smile is a no more than a lethal baring of sharp teeth.

   Sherlock manoeuvres to his chair, smoothing his lapels with trembling fingers. Is it too much to straighten his cuffs? Yes, perhaps so. Instead, he sits down, lifting his right leg to cross it decisively over his left. The act's a statement: "I am calm, collected, and in control of the situation as it lies."

   But wait...something's wrong. Sherlock right foot is bobbing up and down. Fidgeting is shameful behavior. It broadcasts his loss of composure. 

 _Absolutely not. I won't have it._  Unconsciously, Sherlock uncrosses his legs and slams both feet flat on the floor. "So."

   John is very,  _very_ pleased. He watches Sherlock sits, knees pressed together, bony arms folded tightly across his chest. His lover is breathing far faster than circumstances warrant. To John, Sherlock resembles a very small boy deflating in front of the headmaster's desk - awaiting corporal punishment via paddle.

    _Good,_ John thinks.  _Very good._

"Ah. Yes. So," John snorts. "I believe that you have a small grievance?"

    Sherlock's normally pale face reddens at the reminder. His eyes glow with the intensity of his ire. First, John ruins... _deliberately_ , mind, ruins his experiment. Second, his flatmate is being a high-minded twat about acknowledging said destruction. Third, and most disturbing, is that John is scaring him shitless. Sherlock's bollocks feel shriveled and tight, drawn up so far up in his body that they might as well be diagnosed undescended.

    "Yes. Quite, John." Sherlock lifts his nose, struggling to tamp down his nerves. Well.  _Obviously_ , his flatmate's antics are to blame, but it is John's motivations in this matter that are the antecedent of this...this unhappy fluttering in his chest and the excessive desire for fresh oxygen. (Surely, John would mark the signs of an unexpected myocardial infaction in his relatively healthy life partner and act on that knowledge, would he not?) 

  By and large, John is a considerate man. He moves around the experiments with courtesy - and more than a modicum of caution, in deference to their value to The Work. Yes, it is true that  _most_ people consider Sherlock's research vile and macabre- but not  _John,_ a man made of superior stock. John appreciates his genius, is in blatant  _awe_ of Sherlock's uniquely honed skills. 

  So. Why wind up an already too-tightly wound man? To what purpose? John is not cruel. John is kind. John is also firmly in control of his emotions - on the surface, at least, Sherlock observes with a curious eye. The doctor has assumed what for him is an highly unusual position, at least whilst sitting in his low, yielding chair. John is sitting - no, is _poised_ , like a tiger sizing up its prey. His short legs are spread indecently wide, toes pointing front and center. John's strong fingers are digging so deeply into worn cloth that Sherlock wonders that it hasn't yet frayed. There's always something that the detective forgets. Beneath John's tragically bland woolen jumpers beats the heart of a blood-thirsty warrior. 

    Ah. _Ohhhhhh._  Also. Clearly visible between the valley of John's thighs is an enormous, jaw-droppingly impressive erection. John flashes a sharp,  toothsome smile of a predator, and then he pounces.

    

 


	3. Pass Me My Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is faced with a paradigm shift, and surprisingly, finds it okay.
> 
> Well, this took forever and a day to post.

   Leaping swiftly; lithe and limber as a 15th century Shinobi warrior - well, one clad in a lumpy oatmeal jumper - John arcs toward the ceiling as if shot from the barrel of a cannon. Sherlock gasps, his brain grinding its gears until they check, crack, and crumble into dust. And wait, John's screeched to a halt in mid-flight; posed and weightless, six feet above the floor. John, no more a doctor. He's a pint-sized assassin for hire.

   Huh.

_John's...what._

_What is it exactly John's doing? This is straight out of a scene from James Bond._   _Obviously, I'm delusional. This panorama isn't real. Surely, I bumped my head - and then neglected to seek medical treatment. Yes, it's patently obvious, I'm concussed. John can't possibly defy Newton's first law, no one can._

   _"Crouching Tiger, Hidden Blogger", my arse._

   Observations bombard Sherlock's brain at breakneck speed, too quick for even his superior mind to parse. John's thrown a one-two punch of "What the fuck?", and the detective reels back hard, slamming into the backrest with a pop. Sherlock forgives himself for the flood of adulation he feels, in awe of John's formidable grace.

    _So. Figure this one out, moron,_  Sherlock chides himself,  _John's_ _trajectory is obviously impossible; seeing as he's refuting gravitational law. No, I believe that what's actually occurri -_

"Incommmmmiiiiiiinnnng..." the little man hollers, the property of inertia restored.

  **"Oooof!"**

   Every molecule, every atom, each particle of air, is promptly expelled from Sherlock's lungs. He gasps, and sputters, and heaves. Sherlock squeaks out a protest, "Holy... _errrgh_. Bloody hell, John! Did you purposefully aim for my testicles?  _Aaangh..._ because you smashed them dead-center. Well done, you." Sherlock's voice is two octaves higher than normal. 

   "No, you sodding twat, I was not," the little man actually smirks. "So very sorry, my love. Especially since I've a use for those later."

   Sherlock goggles, open-mouthed. Satisfied, John settles, straddling his man with a sigh. The doctor giggles, utterly chuffed by Sherlock's stupefied expression. John's own face is stretched wide, mouth sporting a shit-eating grin. Whilst Sherlock usually (and very privately) relishes those sly, sardonic lip-twisting smirks, it's disconcerting when John's subtle ridicule is aimed at  _him._

   "Well then, explain this slip into insanity!" Sherlock snarls, trying like hell to save face. He spits out a bitter string of insulting invective, not pausing for breath or proper punctuation. "John! This experiment was a crucial determinant to aid in the identification of the unique molecular structure of an until-now unrecognized lethal foot fungus with only one single inadequate skin sample which I was forced to collect during Molly's lunch break because she's _still_ furious can you imagine about my absconding with the Hep A liver infected with Herpes Simplex 12 after the autopsy of the prostitute do you recall the sex worker, who was garroted and subsequently dumped in an abandoned kip directly outside Manches..." 

   "Pay attention, dear heart," John calmly interrupts, with some malice, "and it'll be a snap to deduce my intentions. But, not now, no," he licks his bottom lip until it gleams. "You'll have scads of time to whinge later. Much, _much_ later, after I've had my filthy way with you, you insanely beautiful creature."

   Sherlock's anger melts into irritated interest, John's message finally slicing through his ire. And bloody hell, watching John's perfectly pointed pink tongue; how it _feels_ dragging against the nerve bundles in his most secretly sensitive areas. Irritation melts into interest. Interest puddles into lust. 

   Lust redirects a full twelve pints of blood to surge towards his groin. Sherlock's left light-headed, and dizzy with desire.

   "Now," the little man says, wiggling his finely muscled arse. "I have several issues of which we need to...discuss, Sherlock." John's tongue tilts to wet his upper lip, sharp smile turning sweetly mischievous, "My sexy, my dearest, my most darling man. My Sherlock," he hums, " _my_ Sherlock."

   Whist John's words are playful, the mad light in those blue eyes is still unnerving. "Well, John," Sherlock defiantly rallies, "I unequivocally agree. We _do_ have issues to discuss, several, to be frank, beginning with your wanton destruction of my expUUH..." 

   John's small hand strikes out, cupping around the detective's long neck. Sherlock can't breath. Hell, he can't even swallow, a massive swell of fear clogging his throat. "Listen, you over-tall toddler. I'm tired of your whingeing, and frankly ridiculous demands. For once in your bloody life, _you_ are going to keep your gorgeous lips shut and listen - or I'll seal them myself with glue." He eases off with a smirk.

   The detective goggles, gingerly exploring the flesh of his neck. The last time John unleashed his "crazy" Jeff Hope prowled the busy streets of London.  _Or, should I say, Jeff Hope/Moriarty/Mary Morstan? Such a delicious presentation of Dissociate Personality Disorder...unfortunately, here served with a side-order of psychopathy. Shame, really. His unique mental illness would have made for a fascinating case study._

_I digress._

"Jaawww..." Sherlock clears his throat, filling up his lungs with fresh oxygen. "John. Your behavior is patently absurd."

   "What is  _'patently absurd"_ , Sherlock, is the fact that I put up with your over-inflated ego on a daily basis." John's index finger traces the pronounced line of his jaw, belying the earlier touch. "You already know that you're my best friend, yeah? By now," he smiles, suddenly shy, "surely you've deduced that I love you?" 

   The detective freezes. He is frozen. Frozen solid, liquid nitrogen running through his veins. _I'm John's b_ _est friend?_ Sherlock's core temperature sinks like stone, bottoming at zero Kelvin. _And what did he_... _did I hear "_ _love"_? Love and John? John and love? Could one love such an obnoxious arsehole as he? Abruptly, Sherlock realizes that the kitchen experiment is dreck, fodder for the bin. He spares a few brain cells to delete the experiment. Why piddle on The Work, when there's the sum total of John Hamish Watson to research? Evidently, he's been an idiot.  _Ooooh...which facet of my John shall I investigate first?_

   "Sherrrrr-lock," John croons. "Snap out of it." He follows up his words with a light slap. "You  _must_ know by now that I love you. Honestly, it's the only reason I tolerate all your nonsense. And," his light voice deepens seductively, "why I have something very special in mind."

   Sherlock's cock hopefully twitches.

    "I'm in awe of your brilliance on the scene of a crime as you know, and quite frankly", John groans, "your skill in the bedroom." He caresses Sherlock's pinked cheek. "A multi-talented genius, you are." John grinds his hard cock against Sherlock's. Sherlock's cock is now hard as well.  _Dear God,_ John loves this part of sex; awed that he's the the only person ever allowed this privilege. It's _his_ touch making his lover's cock engorge and grow. 

   John leans in close to nibble on his earlobe. 

   "However, you're a bit of a bully. I'm content to take the back seat during The Work. It's your show, after all." John sticks his warm, liquid tongue in his lover's heretofore neglected other ear. "I believe that it's time for a change of pace in our sex life," the doctor pulls back with a smirk. "Are you open to something new, something different? Or...are you going to continue to be a twat. Because, you ridiculously gorgeous creature, I won't have it."

    "New as in what, precisely? Cherry flavoured lubricant? Six-inch black leather heels and a thong? Be more specific, complete with specs. I can hardly acquiesce to _'something new'_ ," Sherlock sneers, offended; using air quotes like a git - which he is, "without being well-versed in the activity. Am I not correct?"

    "Fair enough," John concedes, pausing to lick along the long cords of his neck, "But even so, I'll hold you to your word. You can't evaluate my  _something new_ , you utter tit, until giving it a go. Am I right? Or, am I right. I believe I'm right."

   Sherlock shivers with lust. "Yes, John. I believe that you are right."

    

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After self-reflection, I believe that from now on I will use the phrase "I digress" in every single work that I post. It's a very "Sherlock Holmes" thing to say. In addition, as an ADHD individual, it's my brain's personal motto - whether I like it or not. Ooh look, candy!
> 
> Wait! Was that a squirrel?


	4. Your Laptop was Six Inches Closer Than Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prelude to something new in the bedroom. Yay! This story was close to being dead in the water, and I didn't want that to happen.

    John lunges in, snogging Sherlock within an inch of his life. The men flounder about, each struggling for physical control. To John's secret delight, piteous whimpers escape Sherlock's lips. It would horrify the genius to recognize these utterances as his own. They're desperate, the mewling of a cat rampant with heat. Fortunately for them both, Sherlock's mind is lost in oblivion. His brain has switched off, floating in a chemical flood of lust.  

   It's like this: Sherlock's moans are a dynamic force. Each plaintive sob generating energy, a high-voltage charge coursing through John's veins. Sparks ignite - electric blue flashing in his eyes. Lightening bolts fly, exciting the nerves in his penis. The little man's bollocks tighten up and lift, threatening to open fire in his pants.  _Fucking hell, I want to swallow him whole!_

_Fucking...fucking...fucking...hell_

   John presses in hungrily, consuming everything that Sherlock has on offer. Although no dummy, John doesn't have the skill-set to see. Sherlock Holmes, that self-absorbed, stubborn-arsed maniac of a man, has already offered himself up. He's arranged on a platter, a ripe, rosy apple held between full lips.

   It is pure lust now in control of Sherlock. His hips launch forward, a grind-thrust-and-wiggle plan of attack against John's most powerful prick. His precious blogger's cock is preternaturally (supernaturally) exquisite, Michelangelo couldn't sculpt one as fine. It's impressively thick. It's inexplicably long. It's pulsing along with the beat of John's heart, base animal need at the ready.

  Sherlock loves it, John's cock. He worships John's penis as if it were a separate entity - a holy relic John deigns to share, with unworthy mortals such as he. "Joh..." Sherlock sucks in a breath. "John. John, Christ in heaven you're so good."

  The doctor tolerates his lover's initiative for a bit. Frankly, Sherlock's cock is a biological wonder in its size, supernatural strength, and awe-inspiring, breath-taking beauty. John finds he can never get enough of the taste and the feel and the power.

  But, no, not for long. Not today. It's he who must hold the reins for this ride, bumpy and dangerous as it is.

  "Sherlock, stop," John says, pulling away from those kiss-swollen lips with regret. "Stop it now. Keep your body still for me and open up your ears. I have something to say."

   The genius hears his blogger speaking, but the words are fuzzy and indistinct, unimportant. "Hmmm?" he murmurs, pushing determinedly into John's slightly soft abdomen, a small pad of fat circling his navel. Sherlock finds it incredibly endearing, and a most excellent surface to rub against; especially whilst salty-slick with his come. "God, John.You feel so good."

    _"Sherlock,"_ the doctor snips, "mind me now, or there will be unpleasant consequences. Be. Still." John frowns irritably as his lover plows on, his words completely ignored. Reaching forward with a practiced surgeon's thumb and one forefinger, he ruthlessly locks onto Sherlock's left earlobe and pinches. 

    The pain snaps the detective out of his delicious, lust-filled haze. He jerks back in blank shock with a grunt. This isn't how things normally go. Even more distressing than John's behavior is that John is not letting go. Point of fact, he's tightening his hold and is ferociously  _twisting_ 'til the bottom of his lobe faces the ceiling. "Ow! John...what the hell! John?" Sherlock squeaks, squirming at the unfamiliar sting. "Exactly what do you think you are doing?" Inexplicably, his hands remain passive and still, resting on the bones of John' hips.

   "I'm doing exactly what I should've done the moment I moved in. I'm asserting control over my life." The little man grins in an unfriendly way, an odd gleam reflecting in his eyes. It's more than a little bit not good. "And now, darling man, I'm asserting control over you." Giving another vicious tweak to his lover's red hot earlobe, John surges in for a kiss.

   Sherlock can't help it. His cock jerks to attention, apparently undeterred by John's unexpected punishment. He knows his brain is seizing up, confused by the barrage of mixed signals. Hot wet tongue, pulsing cock, and sharp pain, such a strange combination. It's not something he's used to. "John," he gasps after what feels like hours of breathless snogging, "What? I don't -  _Jesus!_ Do that tongue...uhh,  _*gasp*_ tongue thing... _again."_ He doesn't pay heed to his instincts, the detective is extremely intrigued.

    "Shut up," John snarls up close and personal, teeth nibbling up the side of Sherlock's neck. The clearly deranged doctor's hands move to slip snugly around the base of his skull. They rest there, a bit too tight for Sherlock's comfort. "You're  _mine,_ " he spits, "or at least for the moment, in this chair. So listen up, you bloody egotistical blowhard. You. Will do. Exactly what I order you to do, and nothing else." John threads deceptively gentle fingers through his locks, and then yanks _hard_. Sherlock's head is locked into such a severe angle that his hair brushes against the top of his back."Have I made myself clear? I'd hate to come across as obtuse." Evil sentiments keep pouring out John's mouth. The detective gasps, mind truly blown. It's hard to catch his breath in this position.

   "Jo...Jo..." Sherlock tries, he really does try, to protest John's feral brutality. Those lips though, and that tongue, doing such wonderful things to his jawline...and  _holy damnation..._ doing such things whilst thrusting against the length of his cock. "Oohhhh....my god, John. What are you - "

   "I thought," the doctor says, wrenching Sherlock's head back another two inches until his glazed and teary eyes are staring at the stained, watermarked ceiling, "I said to shut up." 

   "Yes, John, and yet you asked me a - Ahhh...bloody OUCH!" Sherlock jolted at the of passion the bite. Sadly, the agony of small white kitten teeth sinking into thick, straining muscle is a sensation one should prepare for in advance. The situation being what it was, John didn't give him any warning.

   "Fuck! Sherlock, you're fucking goddamn gorgeous. You're _mine_. I'm going to take you apart - make you scream," John growls low, "make you come so hard you pass out." Sherlock can't help but shake; helpless, stupefied pleasure coursing through his veins as John's thin, agile lips create a trail of light kisses. "And now that I have your undivided attention..." Sherlock's eyes close, body melting in sublime supplication.

    He disappears. It's like a magic trick. Bloody hell. Sherlock's flesh numbs, freezing solid. He's been heartlessly abandoned by John. This was a trick, a malicious jest purposefully wounding his heart. He's been played. He's been cruelly cast away, discarded into a vat of liquid nitrogen. Sherlock heart flutters to a stop. What a remarkably disconcerting development. Panicked, the genius counts -  _one, two, three -_ before the muscle re-establishes its normal sinus rhythm. John's super-heated, hard heaving body has the power to shut down his heart. It's only upon deducing this fact that Sherlock thinks to open his eyes.

   He blinks. John is _not_ gone. John is standing before him, holding two items of a...frankly unexpected nature. If he's read the data correctly, and in all seriousness, what’s the likelihood that he’s erred, then - oh, bugger. There was that time that he'd attempted to drug John via tainted sugar.  

 _No...stop thinking about that. Such an abhorrent violation of John's trust, and it's not on -_ The detective swallows hard, forcing down a bitter lump of shame. His guilt burns white hot, curdling up the acid in his stomach. _Enough, fool. It's useless to obsess on the past. Focus on the here, on the now. Focus on John. Observe, ask valid questions, collect data. Question One: What the hell is John doing with those two particular items?_    

How very odd it is, how John stands before him. His flatmate seems inflated, well-nigh towering above Sherlock with authority. His normally frumpy fare is gone, exchanged for khaki camouflage fatigues. John, the army vet, stands proud. Chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in, blue eyes locked in a fixed, forward posture aiming straight at the wayward detective. John is fierce, strong and sinewy, body taut with freshly formed muscle. He's sending a crystal clear message. The captain's here, a trained soldier and doctor. A very good doctor, who nonetheless, has bad days. Very bad days.

"Tell me now, Sherlock, and for God's sake, don't prevaricate. Is this," John jiggles his cargo, one item giving a definite metallic clink, "a yes for you, or not?"

   "Puh...puh...pardon?" A pink flush suffuses Sherlock's cheeks. "A yes, as in what, precisely? In what context? A yes or no for what?

   "Cut it out," John smirks. "We both know that you're a right clever bastard. Stop pretending you've not deduced 'In what context' your consent is required."

   "I...ah. Well. I see. Wait, no I don't. Where exactly is all this," Sherlock's hands spin in opposite circles, "coming from?" 

   "Sherlock. We will get there, I promise. Eventually. However, if you don't give me an answer right this second, these get binned, and we never speak another word about this." John sniffs, tilts his head, and purses his lips, all whilst simultaneously raising one eyebrow. He's a plain-spoken man, even in his blog, but a virtuoso of facial expression.

   "Well, yes," Sherlock grunts, "obviously. The context to which we're referring to is obvious."

   John snorts and rubs at his nose. It's very possible that he's hiding a smile. "That's all you've got? That's bloody brilliant, mate. Come on, Sherlock, you can do it. Keep going." He bobs his head, mocking encouragement.

   "As in exactly what you are implying, with the...ehm, the objects in your possession, and the fatigues, and the Jekyll and Hyde change in your demeanor. _That._ In itself, the combination of data concludes that the context of your query is self-evident."

   "Well, that is my hope. I shouldn't want to be labelled obtuse." John drops the items on the floor with a thunk, and Sherlock jumps. The captain eases slightly, assuming parade rest. "So spit it out, you fucking sexy  _genius._ Are you up for a challenge?"

   Sherlock pales, and then reddens. A bulge pushes up under his flies. "You want to use these."

   "Yes."

   "Not on you?" Sherlock wavers, then makes it a statement. "Not on you."

   "Yup," John smirks, popping the "p" just like somebody he knows. "Or rather, no."

    "So, on me," Sherlock detective squeaks, quickly coughing to cover the noise. He's not a sissy, for Christ's sake. "And so...what would happen next, that is, after I put them both on?" 

  “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with,” John purrs, “unless," his voice dropping to a whisper, he mouths, "that’s something that you like.”

   The detective whimpers, he can't help it. John is being so, oh how does Molly put it, a BAMF? Yes. John is behaving like a BAMF, and he, Sherlock, is not. Sherlock groans, and makes one further deduction. He wants it. He wants John to take charge. His cock is pressing rock hard against his pants, so full of blood that it actually hurts. 

   "I do like," the genius pants. "John, please. Tell me what you want me to do."

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went waaaay outside my comfort zone. I've never written porn for the sake of porn, and Dom/sub porn - well, it's my first. Hopefully it didn't come across as cheesy!


End file.
